


Erik's vague story

by Musical_Noel



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Creative Writing project that I wrote last year that I'm putting to good use, F/M, It's lokey cringy, but highkey good, five senses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-13 20:53:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16479581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musical_Noel/pseuds/Musical_Noel
Summary: Erik, The Living Dead, The Man’s Voice, Angel of Music, The Phantom of the Opera so many names for him that never last long. A boy born with a deformed face and shunned upon his name day. Some say his mother drank a vile of poison that didn’t kill her, others say his face was a kiss from the devil himself. Whatever caused it, the face of a monster that he was born with made him live a horrid life. One that began with no love from his mother. He ran away and was imprisoned by gypsies, put on to sing, then once the song concluded, they would tear off his mask and show the world the horror of his face. Then the life of an architect who built palaces and a mirror labyrinth for the Shah of Persia. Then, he ran for his life, commissioned the Paris Opera house and has lived under it for many years. A life of peace.





	1. Sound

I can still hear the voices, nothing gets rid of them. Not music, not reading, not even terrorizing the managers above. They ring throughout my head, calling me what I truly am, a beast, a monster. They’ll never go away, not unless I hear her sing. My dear Christine, a beauty sent from heaven, here to destroy me with fantasies unneeded. I’ve sent letters to the managers to put Christine in the spotlight, show the world what a true singer sounds like, not that painful screeching from La Carlotta, and tonight, with a little push from the infamous Opera Ghost, they complied. Hearing her beautiful voice ring through the acoustics of the Opera House was a dream come true. I watched from the up above and out of sight as she soared through her songs with practiced perfection. Her voice was truly stunning, not something a monster like me should have been blessed enough to hear, but yet I’m the one who molded that voice to the perfection. The euphoric feeling I get every night at five when we have lessons and I can look at her through the mirror and hear her voice. But when the terrible chiming of the grandfather clock cuts through the room meaning it’s the end of her lessons, it also means the return of the voices, the return of the night terrors, and the return of reality. I would sit at my piano and compose into the early hours of the morning, trying to overpower those voices with loud music. But not tonight, tonight’s different because I didn’t walk into the darkness of my house alone, but instead with Christine. The voices never came because she never left. She slept in my bed as I composed little, sweet melodies of love. Melodies that weren’t possessed of my past, but instead of a future I’m dreaming of. A future with her, a future that will never happen. I heard the keys of my piano yell out, but I felt nothing as I slammed my hands down on them. Hope only destroys when it is destroyed, don’t let it take hold of you, or you’ll be filled with sorrow in the end. The only motto I’ve kept through my whole life, one that kept me living, she has destroyed in one day.


	2. Sight

**  Entry Two-Erik’s House **

I felt the cool rush of wind where a mask once lied. I opened my eyes to see a look of horror in Christine’s eyes, the same look I have received all my life, the look on the face of someone I’ll never see again. Red surrounded my line of vision, I was angry that she would destroy the only good thing I had left in my life. Herself. It was a blur what happened, I blacked out, but when I snapped into my sense once more, all I saw was destruction. My house was turned inside out, an effect of my terrible temper. Instantly worried, I looked around for Christine, hoping that she didn’t get caught by anything. Books sprawled across the floor, my black couch turned over, the coffee table leaning on two legs, the other two had whereabouts unknown. My red Persian carpet, the only thing in my living room that had not been disturbed, lay there with sheets of music sprawled across it. I could see into the kitchen from where I sat, the oil lamp that illuminated it showed that though kitchen cabinets had been opened or broken, nothing was out of place other than some music and books that spilled in from the living room.  I stood up from where I lay on the two-step stairway that led from my living room to the hallway where my music room and bedroom reside. I pushed back the heavy red velvet curtain that separates my room from the house to find that nothing was pushed out of place but a single candle that had fallen from my bedside table to the floor below, wax dripping from a once lit candle on to the fluffy black carpet. I looked at my bed, the black sheets didn’t have a single crinkle in them showing that Christine had made it when she got out of it. The light that spilled in from the hallway illuminated the backboard of my bed, showing the hand-carved sparrow with wings spread wide, that still makes me remember the feeling of ripping out hundreds of splinters from my hands once I was done with it. I drew the curtain back, allowing the darkness to engulf my room once again. I walked a few steps to look into my music room. What used to be an elegant room with bookshelves lining the walls with music and musical instruments was no longer intact. The piano bench was flipped over, instruments are strewn about, some of the sheet music was on the floor, covering the ground in a beige color, while the rest was in little piles on the piano. I heard humming coming from behind the piano and followed it to find Christine organizing my mess. She looked up when she saw the feet of my boots. She flinched a little but then settled. I reached up to grab the right side of my face only to realize that the mask that supposed to be there, hiding my deformity was missing, and yet she wasn’t screaming or running away. 


	3. Touch

**  Entry Three- Metaphor  **

My body is a canvas, coloured with scars from my life before. My keepers were the painters, waking me up each morning with new strokes to add to their painting. I can’t bear to look at myself in the mirror anymore between my distorted face and scar-covered body. The only mirror in my house lays shattered, glass pieces in an organized mess on the ground around it and a cloth covering the frame. I hate looking at myself, it brings back the pain, so I dress completely covered, and the only thing left out in the open is the left side of my face. Gloves cover my hands, black pants and a suit jacket cover my body, and a dark violet cravat lays over top of my white dress shirt, which is neatly tucked into my pants. Dress shoes and socks cover my feet and ankles, and a mask covers the right side of my face. Yet with every passing hour that Christine’s around, I find myself loosing small pieces of clothing. First my gloves, she said it would be easier to play the violin without them, which is true, but I know it’s really because she likes taking my ice cold hands in hers and warming them up. Then it’s my jacket, she told me it’s too warm and musty in my house to keep it on all the time, and soon with it went the cravat that covered my neck.  Lastly, my shoes, she said that it was my home, I should be more comfortable around it. She has little excuses for all of them, but I notice her staring, studying my scars, committing them to memory. At first I was uncomfortable with all her staring, it reminds of my past, all the sneers and glares, then the cackling and shouts. But then with the stares come light touches of her fingertips on the back of my hand before she lifts up my arm and flips it back and forth, looking at the scars that reside there. I can’t look at the look of pity that fills her eyes, but I wipe away the pain from her face when I feel a drop on my hand.


	4. More sound

** Entry Four – Personification **

Both of us have a strong passion for music, it helps us both escape. I use music to escape from the real world and my face, whereas she uses music to bring her back to her late father. But together, the music lives. Our voices mold together with the piano playing underneath and around us, the music dances. It doesn’t matter what song we’re playing, whether it be _Come Sweet Death_ by Bach or _Come and Trip It_ by Handel, the music engulfs us taking full control of what we are doing. I know she feels it too, she will hold eye contact with me when she can and smile. Her voice will soar over everything else, taking us away from the world for the length of the song, yet she still insists that I’m the better singer. As I compose, she closes her eyes and listens, the music grabs hold of her and she surrenders to it, clearing her mind from all the wrong from before. Even through the darkness of a single oil lamp, the music brings in light, opening windows to a world that doesn’t exist, a world where our music is in full control. A world where none of this has to end, it can go one forever and ever. Even when we get tired, voices sore from singing and hands cramped from playing, the music lives on. Through the way, fingers tap when we’re reading, and the way she hums when cooking, the music refuses to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is short, but it made the two hundred word limit. Also I realized that the project wasn't five senses, but it's to late to change it now, we're just not going to have smell and taste. Oops.


	5. more sight

**Entry Five – Picture**

It’s finished, Don Juan Triumphant is finally finished. The opera I’ve poured my whole life into is finally done. I’ve spent almost every waking moment writing that opera, hoping that it contained all the wrong in the world, all the pain that was thrust upon me. So many sleepless nights where my eyes refused to stay open, so many days gone by without a single substantial meal, my stomach grumbling over the sound of my music, but I didn’t care, because this opera meant the world to me. Yet, now it’s done, and not done in the way I expected it to end. It was supposed to end in heartbreak, death, grief, then more death, an ending like  _ Romeo and Juliet’s, _ yet much more tragic. But instead it ended with happiness, and I don’t mind it. It’s an ending I hope like my own. The duet,  _ The Point of No Return _ , crafted just for Christine and me to sing, molded for our voices to take the crowd away and throw them into a different realm.  The song itself took a whole year to craft, its final form sounding nothing like it did when I first wrote it down. It started out as a song of pure hate and distrust but ended as a song of love and passion. Though the singing’s harsh, and the aura of the song can throw you off, when that final chord hits, you can feel the passion pouring through you as it does to Don Juan and Aminta. When the opera was performed, it felt like Christine and I were the only two people left on earth, nothing else around us mattered as we stared into each other’s eyes. The chord died and a gunshot was what brought us both back as Raoul tried to win back his lost love through the destruction of me. My opera never finished, but I didn’t care because I still have the memory, the manuscript, and the muse that lead it to have that happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It a short story, but I still hope you enjoyed it. I love reading your comments and answering back sometimes so feel free.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a project for the five senses last year in my creative writing class last year and found it during my procrastination of writing my other story, The Scars that Connect Us, (Which you should go read if you haven't because it's really good) and decided to post it.


End file.
